Classic Poem

I.

Not profitless the game, even when we lose,
Nor wanting in reward the thankless toil;
The wild adventure that the man pursues,
Requites him, though he gather not the spoil:
Strength follows labor, and its exercise
Brings independence, fearlessness of ill, —
Courage and pride, — all attributes we prize; —
Though their fruits fail, not the less precious still.
Though fame withholds the trophy of desire,
And men deny, and the impatient throng
Grow heedless, and the strains protracted, tire; —
Not wholly vain the minstrel and the song,
If, striving to arouse one heavenly tone
INothers' hearts, it wakens up his own.

II.

And this, methinks, were no unseemly boast,
In him who thus records the experience
Of one, the humblest of that erring host,
Whose labors have been thought to need defence.
What though he reap no honors, — what though death
Rise terrible between him and the wreath,
That had been his reward, ere, in the dust,
He too is dust; yet hath he in his heart,
The happiest consciousness of what is just,
Sweet, true, and beautiful, — which will not part
From his possession. In this happy faith,
He knows that life is lovely — that all things
Are sacred — that the air is full of wings
Bent heavenward, — and that bliss is born of scath!

III.

And other lessons of humanity,
That fill the earth with blossoms — teach to feel
That man is better than he seems to be,
And he declares himself, and deeds reveal:
Not of good wholly fruitless was the tree
Whose fruit was death; and, from the crowd apart,
There beckons one, first-born of poesy,
A gentle power, that from his darkled eyes
Removes all scales, and sets the vision free,
And teaches mercy for the erring heart,
Not always wilful! We may naught despise
In God's creation! Erring we, not wise; —
Given up to passion, — hateful of the just, —
Prone to blind toils, strange follies, crime and dust.